Rough Place
by ardavenport
Summary: Qui-Gon takes Obi-Wan out to a cantina for a covert meeting.
1. Chapter 1

**ROUGH PLACE**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 1**

"Be mindful, my young Padawan. This place can be a little rough."

"I am prepared, Master."

Obi-Wan caught an amused glance from Qui-Gon from under the hood of his robe. But if his Master did not believe his sixteen year-old apprentice, he said nothing about it. He followed.

The back of Qui-Gon Jinn's dark brown robe and hood descended the narrow stairs, the broad shoulders blocking the dim yellowish light, casting long dark shadows on the pale, grimy walls. He turned right at the landing, under the light. Obi-Wan saw another landing, the stairs leading down to the left. Behind him, Obi-Wan heard heavy footsteps starting down from the entrance, but he did not look. He saw the entrance below. He wrinkled his nose. He could smell it, too.

A weapons detector plate on either side of the archway at the bottom of the stairs flashed and whirred when Qui-Gon passed through it. But no one stepped up to either Jedi. Obi-Wan saw a couple of tough, burly characters with enormous gray tusks, dented body armor and blasters in shoulder holsters. They narrowed their quad-eyes in their direction, but nothing more. Apparently, a lightsaber power cell wasn't enough to bother them.

The large room was dim, the tables full of multi-species customers, chatting, chattering, grunting, whistling. The yellow and orange table lights hardly dispelled the gloom. The cantina air was thick with the mixed body odors, antiseptic intoxicants and salty, sulphurous aromas that might have been either food or excrement. Obi-Wan stayed close as his Master made his way among the patrons.

Obi-Wan arched his back, away from the hand, or some type of appendage, suddenly running down his backside.

F f f f f f f z z z z z z z z z z t t t t t t t t t t t !!!!!

"Sheevee-evie-evie-evei!!"

Obi-Wan kept completely still, his Master's lightsaber blade less than a finger-length from his right ear. The touch on his back vanished and he heard someone shuffling away quickly. Qui-Gon, his face shadowed under his hood, glared over his head at whoever it had been. Obi-Wan did not look.

The bright green energy blade vanished. Qui-Gon turned around and continued. Obi-Wan kept close.

A serving counter, staffed by several tender droids took up most of the far wall, but Qui-Gon turned to his right, toward one of several side rooms of tables and booths along the wall. Stopping at one small booth, Qui-Gon just stared down at the two occupants. The female hissed, baring pointed teeth. The younger male nervously twitched his veined, flower-like ears, one of them tattered on a bottom edge.

Qui-Gon raised a hand. "It is time to leave." Obi-Wan felt the strong hint of threat in Qui-Gon's mind influence on them.

Still hissing and twitching, they edged out of their seats, staying as far away as they could from Qui-Gon. His Master slid into the newly vacated bench seat. Obi-Wan did the same.

Their backs to the wall, Obi-Wan scanned the room, his own face safely shadowed under his hood. The eyes and sensory stalks of a few neighboring patrons glanced toward them and then quickly away. His Master was not concerned with the whole room knowing that they were Jedi.

Beyond their table, Obi-Wan searched for a tall, broad shouldered Traguun. Perhaps there was a few possibilities on the far side of the room, but he couldn't be sure. There were too many people in the room, too much noise, too many beings in the way to see past them.

"Don't strain, Obi-Wan."

He started. And then lowered his gaze to the tabletop, the residue of previous food and drink barely cleaned off of it. "Yes, Master."

He quieted his thoughts. Their meeting place was specific, but the time vague, between second and third meals. The Traguun, Y'Takr Ayr, sent a message addressed directly to Qui-Gon at the Jedi Temple. Obi-Wan had only found out about it that morning when Qui-Gon told him they were leaving to meet her. More than twenty years ago Ayr had first helped him on a mission to prevent an assassination on Crowchat. And his Master had only met up with her three times since then, the last time a couple years before Qui-Gon had taken Obi-Wan as his Padawan.

She was no one of any great rank, intellect or influence. She irregularly worked for clans much richer and more powerful than her own. She arranged travel, procured entertainments and other things for them. Not all of them legal, though Qui-Gon said she was not really a criminal herself.

She did have contacts. She worked for important people. But her message had contained only vague references to information about corruption in the sector government. And they were traveling half way across the galactic core to meet her.

As their ship left Coruscant, Obi-Wan asked why Ayr's message was so important. Qui-Gon looked surprised and answered, "It's not important. But meeting someone who was of assistance to me in the past, is. You must learn to value the people you meet, Obi-Wan. As Jedi, we come to serve, but we must always be mindful of those who offer their service to us. Even a Jedi needs allies. Or friends."

Obi-Wan now pushed aside the distractions of the busy room, the suspicion at the tables all around them, the swirl of aromas, the noise, the dim lights. Their Traguum ally could be nearby already. And his Master might already be aware of the expected presence as well.

Without moving his head, Obi-Wan's eyes flicked up to the server who approached. She was young and lithe, slender blue-green arms and wide, curvy hips. Her shiny red dress clung to her torso, apparently concealing only as much as necessary for local standards. A matching cap covered her elongated skull. She looked from one to the other of them, her eyes accented in bright red and dark blue.

Qui-Gon lifted one finger on his left hand.

"Two d'ynas." He tossed a golden chit of local currency on the table that landed right in front of her.

Again, she looked from one to the other of them. Obi-Wan did not know what else she might expect from them. The chit disappeared under her slender fingers and she left.

Obi-Wan continued to observe. Silently minding the room around them. As instructed by his Master before they had arrived.

The patrons at three of the five other tables immediately around them were visibly armed. Three of them pushed their chairs back and with suspicious glares at the Jedi, left. Two Guthadians scurried up onto the vacant chairs as soon as they were gone. A bare-chested server with a silvery headdress that looked like the rings around a planet appeared and cheerfully asked for their order.

A dull gray metaloid droid server carrying a huge round platter loaded with plates piled high with steaming food stopped at a table on their right. One of the four people there scooped up a couple of goopy flats before the droid could lower the platter down to the table. Across the room, a couple of Quermians slipped through a dark doorway between two more tusked, burly guards. In another direction a group raised their mugs and cheered some mutual success. Others just huddled around the small yellow or orange table lights as if for warmth.

Another droid rolled up to their table, lowered its tray and deposited two clear, stout cups of amber liquid, one in front of Obi-Wan, one in front of his Master. As soon as the droid swivelled around and moved away, Qui-Gon's hand emerged from under the dark sleeve of his robe. He raised the cup to his lips and sipped.

Obi-Wan stared down at the clear amber. His hand cautiously approached it. Raising the cup, he sniffed. It smelled like it could kill even the fiercest microbe. He tasted it and his whole mouth stung. Then his throat from the little bit that he'd taken in. He watched Qui-Gon, who took another sip, before putting the cup down.

Should he take another sip? When did minding his Master become mindless? He already couldn't draw in air without tasting the antiseptic sweetness of the d'yna, the other smells around him now completely veiled by the drink.

Though he had certainly been to cantinas far rougher than this one, he had never partaken of their intoxicants before. Qui-Gon knew that. Obi-Wan did not even know what d'yna was. A simple alcohol intoxicant? Or did it have more convoluted effects? There were nearly limitless possibilities, but his Jedi training included using the Force to metabolize many of them quickly.

Obi-Wan just wasn't very experienced with using them.

He took another cautious sip, but his senses, already slighted deadened by the first one, did not react as strongly to it.

A broad torso blocked out the light from the long serving counter. Y'Takr Ayr had arrived. She pulled out the chair opposite Qui-Gon and sat with a glance over her armored shoulder. She was clearly not comfortable with her back to the crowd.

The three pale fleshy protuberances that crowned her head were heavily tattooed with colored swirls and accented with gold studs. Her lips and eyes were painted with green outlines, making them look larger. She wore dented black shoulder armor and gauntlets on her muscular forearms over her rough dark shirt, plus large pouches on her belt over each hip.

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows at her. "You look well."

Her thick lips puckered upward. "Older, I look, Master Qui-Gon. Well, that never is," she answered in an age-roughened, but otherwise strong, steady voice. Her species did not appear to be too vulnerable to wrinkling, sagging skin. And she had no hair to gray with age. But her dark clothes looked well worn, frayed and faded. "Your years, you Jedi wear better than I."

"On the outside at least."

Ayr's lips curled in a smile. "Settle for that, I would."

Qui-Gon's eyes glinted with sympathy for her.

"You said that you had information?"

She hunched her shoulders. "Me, it is not who has your information. Here, she should be now. Daughter of power, she is. Knows things she says, that only to a Jedi she will tell. Big things." She leaned forward. "Very big," she half whispered.

Qui-Gon looked bored. "Is she a usual informant for you?" Qui-Gon picked up his drink and sipped again. Obi-Wan's eyes flicked down at the lone glass in front of him. He could still taste it. He felt nothing from it . . . . but there was something. . . .

"Talk she does. A youngest daughter of big ambition, but minor talent. Knows so much about dark dealings, she brags. But reliable, she usually is." Ayr frowned thoughtfully.

"Could she have been delayed by her 'dark dealings'?" Qui-Gon speculated.

Keeping still, mind and body, under his robe, Obi-Wan felt an undefined tension in his chest through Force, growing rapidly in urgency. His eyes looked down at the single, small cup of amber fluid before him. Could half a swallow of d'yna do that? He took in a long, slow breath to quiet his mind, but now the Force tasted like d'yna.

"More talk than action, she has always been," Ayr grumbled.

Uncertainty dimmed Obi-Wan's perception. Staring forward at the orange half-globe top of the table light, he stopped his thoughts. The noise and the dim crowded room and even the after-taste of the d'yna faded.

"Talk can be dangerous." Qui-Gon sipped his d'yna thoughtfully. "Did she tell you anything? Perhaps a hint about who she had information about?"

At Obi-Wan's center, there was the Force. His Master and Y'Takr Ayr on either side of him, facing each other. Outward, the room full of people, talking, drinking, doing other things, and beyond them. . . . There was a danger. Behind him. The d'yna was just a distraction. Under the table, he reached his foot out and tapped the top of his Master's boot.

"Hsssssssssss. A pretender, she is. All talk. Thought she could at least do that, I did. Thinks she can best her family as outlaw. Placate her they do; money they give her. Always bad, that is."

"So, she has bought her way into the local underworld? That would be exceedingly dangerous, if she is as short on talent as you say," Qui-Gon said with not even a glance toward Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan tapped his Master's boot again, harder.

"If wishes to throw money she does, foolish it would be not to catch it. But not that stupid, she is. Patronize her, her purchased outlaw friends do. See that, even she can. So, turn on them, she will. Tell all to Jedi, she says," Ayr replied, her voice rising and falling in sarcasm.

Obi-Wan brought his foot down - -

- - and touched the floor.

Qui-Gon's foot came down on his, pressing hard on his toes for just an instant.

Her brows lowered, Ayr squinted toward Obi-Wan when he jerked. A small motion, but enough to draw her attention. He lowered his eyes. There on the table, between his hands, was the small cup of d'yna.

Don't think - - - act - - -

**

* * *

- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**ROUGH PLACE**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 2**

F f f f f f f f f f f f z z z z z z z z z z z t t t t t t t t t t t t t t t !!!!!!!!!!

Blue lightsaber flashing, Obi-Wan whirled up and out of his chair, the blade catching a red blaster bolt. The people at the other tables cried out and dove for cover as Obi-Wan ran toward the source of the weapon's fire - -

- - Right behind his Master, who leaped up and onto - -

- - one - -

- - two - -

- - three - -

- - four tabletops, green lightsaber blade whirling, catching and deflecting blaster bolts to the ceiling and upper walls. Drinks, utensils, table lights flew in all directions in his wake, the tables themselves falling, everything clattering to the floor, patrons diving for cover.

Eeeeee-yyyuuuupppphhhhhffffff!!!

"Aaaaaiiiiii!!!"

With a flashing bang and squeal of metaloid, the last blow sliced through the muzzle of the blaster and the arm that held it.

Obi-Wan skidded to a stop at his Master's side, the hoods of their robes thrown back, their heads bare. People hastily pushed themselves away from his lowered lightsaber, chairs falling over. He clicked it off. But the tip of his Master's blade stayed close to their attacker's face. She was young and humanoid, delicate pale features contorted in pain in the deadly green light so close over her.

Snarling, she drew back. Letting go of her wounded arm, she reached down, trying to pull something up but she got caught in the trailing sleeve of her black tunic.

F f f f e e e E E E e e e e e Z Z Z Z Z z z z z z f f f f f !!!!!!

A second blaster clattered down into the shadows under overturned furniture. She bent forward, both arms clutched to her narrow chest. Qui-Gon's lightsaber went out and he reattached it to his belt. He bent down and pulled her up to her feet. The top of her head barely reached up to the middle of his chest.

Four of the tusked, burly guards moved in against the flow of patrons pushing away from the violence. A fifth guard dragged a shocked Y'Takr Ayr by the arm toward them. Obi-Wan put his hand on his saber and backed up, his eyes going to his Master who kept a firm grip on their attacker.

"Su-cha!"

The guards lowered their weapons, heads turning to the side. Their server, the curvy, blue-green young woman in the minimal red outfit slipped in between two of them as they all deferentially lowered their tusks toward her.

"No, no, no! Nothing she said of this to me! Nothing!" Ayr stammered, pleading to all, but especially to Qui-Gon. Their server silenced her with a glare. Then her accented eyes looked everyone up and down, her expression impatient.

"If you wish to settle your business with this person in a less crowded area, Jedi, my office in the back is available."

"Thank-you." Qui-Gon inclined his head toward her. "And I believe that this person will require medical assistance, if you have any available on the premises."

She sneered back. "Bring her with you." Her gaze shifted to one of the guards. "Pockr, bring that with you."

The guard grunted and stooped to pick up the remains of the injured woman's hand and blasters from behind the hem of Obi-Wan's robe. He hastily moved aside and followed Qui-Gon, their prisoner, the server and her guards.

She was not just a cantina server, but obviously managed the establishment, or was perhaps an owner. The serving droids behind the counter bowed their heads to her as she touched a palm control by a mirrored doorway. Their reflections were replaced by a portal into a long narrow corridor. She led them through, down between smooth, featureless beige surfaces and gray doors flush with the walls. The door at the end opened and they entered.

One entire glowing wall of the office, behind the desk, was shelves with all different kinds and sizes of colored bottles and boxes on them. A ventilator gently hummed fresh air from above. The guards deposited their attacker in one of the three low red, bowl-like chairs with a shiny bluish metaloid medical droid next to it.

"Aaaaah!" the woman cried out, her arms clutched to her chest. But the droid was aggressively programmed. It kept a grip on her collar while it probed and prodded and scanned with its four appendages. An injector needle came out and soon after the woman sighed in relief, limp in the padded basket seat of the chair.

Two guards took positions on either side of the door they had come through, their body armor creaking under their flexing muscles. Another guard stood by a closed door on an opposite wall after handing over the severed hand to the medical droid. Another, heavy paw still clamped around Y'Takr Ayr's arm, stood by the desk. She stood unresisting, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

Readjusting his robe, Obi-Wan moved to see around the medical droid working on their attacker. She wasn't very big or very old. When the droid pulled off the black cap, metallic silver and gold curls cascaded down around her face. She had pale, delicate features, lips and eyes accented in a darker beige than her skin. And she had suffered a cruel injury. One hand seemed to have only singed fingers, but the stump of the other arm was unsalvageable, as usual for lightsaber injuries. Qui-Gon's blade had not only removed the hand, it had cut a long, deep charred notch in what remained of her forearm.

"You are the proprietor, then?" Qui-Gon asked, his arms neatly folded before him, the dark brown sleeves of his robe hanging down over his middle, not as broad as the guards, but easily the tallest person in the room. Obi-Wan folded his arms before him as well.

"One of them," she answered casually, "I'm Madame Leetuph." She tapped squares on the inset controls on the desk. A holo-circle glowed yellow, then blue. "Zyush na t'lomosh tu go mohcha clan," she said to the small boxy image of the droid.

"Heef-shwaf," it answered before she flicked off the holo. "We run a clean place here. My crew makes sure of that." She smiled toward her large, tusked guards who grunted and nodded proudly to each other. Then hers and every else's eyes turned toward Y'Takr Ayr.

"Nothing did she say of this! Nothing! Information, she said she had for the Jedi. Not death!" she implored, her green accented eyes large with terror.

She was telling the truth. The sense of betrayal from her burned real and bright in the Force. Obi-Wan looked to his Master, who could see it, too, but he turned away from Ayr anyway and went over to their wounded attacker.

"You have a name? You didn't give our mutual friend a chance to introduce us."

She blearily glared up at the large Jedi looming over her, defiant still, a hard plastoid bandage strapped down over her arm stump.

"Taza Oor. Of the Assassain's Guild," she hissed back through clinched teeth.

"Really?" Qui-Gon looked unimpressed. He turned back to the cantina's propietor and Ayr. "Is there an Assassain's Guild? I've never heard of one."

"She's Tazulumae Ooremmus!" Ayr shouted, tugging against the guard still holding her by the arm. "Her mother is the Deputy to the Sector Exchequer. Her father is the Chief of Staff of the Vice-Chancellor. Her brothers are in three different Assemblies!"

"That poodoo has been coming in with Cuchas and his gang," the Madame Leetuph told them, her scantily clad body leaning on her desk, "buying them drinks and dinners. She's their new pet. I don't let them do any of their dealings in my place, but anyone can come in if they behave themselves. She's their new mascot. And apparently they've been telling her load of hyperspace tales that she was stupid enough to believe. Assasain's Guild," Leetuph scoffed.

Qui-Gon looked back down at Ooremmus. "Did someone pay you to try to kill us? Cuchas, perhaps?"

"With your death, Jedi, I will be made part of the Guild. No one would deny that I was an assassain," she snarled.

"Really?" Qui-Gon frowned.

Obi-Wan shuddered. Ayr had certainly been right about her having more ambition than talent. Or sense. "How much did she pay you?"

Everyone, including his Master, turned to look at Obi-Wan. Ayr stared back at him, surprised; it was the first time he had said anything to her.

"Ooremmus," his eyes flicked down toward the wounded woman, "how much did she pay you to send your message to us?"

Ayr cringed, her expression tragic. Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows at Obi-Wan before turning back to his informant. "How much?" he asked as well.

"Ten thousand dataries. But for information to pass only! Never would I have summoned you if ever I thought wished death for you, she did!" Ayr exclaimed, nearly frantic.

"Hmmm." Qui-Gon appeared to be unmoved as he thought about this and Ayr grew increasingly miserable. "You should have asked for more. A bounty on a Jedi would be ten times that." He quirked a smile down at his Padawan. Obi-Wan returned it.

"At least, Master. Even more for two."

"Nooo! No bounty, Master Qui-Gon! I did not!" Ayr seemed near to tears, her three fleshy, studded tattooed protuberances quivered on her head.

Qui-Gon sighed. "I don't believe Y'Takr Ayr had anything to do with Ooremmus's attempt to kill us. She's seems to have been duped by her as badly as Ooremmus was by the gang she patronized. Though I suspect that my friend is far more capable of learning from her mistake."

"Yes, yes!" Ayr reached her gauntleted arms to Qui-Gon as if grasping for a life-preserver. "No harm, I meant!"

Madame Leetuph looked unimpressed, but she flicked a hand gesture toward the tusked guard and he let go of Ayr's arm.

"She'll still have to talk to the authorities when they get here." She folded her thin arms over her shapely, barely-covered bust.

Ayr stumbled forward over the pristine, smooth floor and fell to her knees before them. Qui-Gon looked a little embarrassed as she gratefully gushed up at him, "No harm! No harm!"

Obi-Wan glanced back at Ooremmus, nearly immobile from her injury and the medical droid's treatment, but still angry, still overflowing with unfulfilled ambition. Almost no harm.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**ROUGH PLACE**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 3**

"These rich families. . . . don't know what to do with their spawn. They shouldn't have them if they don't know to do with them," Inspector Yeevshoar downed his drink in one gulp, pouring it into the mouth of his long trunk. Obi-Wan could imagine the greenish fluid burning down the long mouth appendage. He slumped back into the rear seat of their booth, hunched into his robe and watched from under his hood while the police inspector, whose patroller droids had taken Tazulumae Ooremmus away, complained. Y'Takr Ayr, seated across from him agreed heartily. Qui-Gon Jinn, sitting between them, his back to the busy cantina, his robe hanging over the back of his chair, only nodded.

"Hard times have been, that her money I would have to take, "Ayr wailed, "and my Jedi friend, endanger. But know, I did not!" She grasped the pale sleeve of Qui-Gon's tunic.

"Of course. No harm." He smiled, reassuring her for the fifth or sixth time, and she slumped back, relieved.

"This isn't the first time I've had to arrest one of these brats." The Inspector plowed on with his original complaint, his lips held high at the end of his curving trunk over the table light, his eye stalks twitching in annoyance. "Though this one turned out a lot worse than most. Humph! Must be pretty sweet being able to do that kind of damage to someone who deserves it so much." His lips 'humphed' right in front of Qui-Gon's face for emphasis before the Inspector withdrew them.

"I take no pleasure in injuring someone so badly misguided." His Master looked annoyed, his bearded face cold, but the inspector didn't seem to notice.

"I would. I swear I'll be chasing down all these minor miscreants until I retire. Truants! We've got real crime to deal with instead of all these stupa bugs under our feet."

A serving droid with a tray of four more small cups interrupted the Inspector's rant. It's spindly arm deposited one each in front of their table's occupants. After Ooremmus was taken away, Madame Leetuph invited them to stay as long as they wished. The serving droid did not ask for payment for the libations. It was not d'yna this time, though it was just as antiseptic, sweet, burning and cooling to taste at the same time. But Obi-Wan didn't remember what it was called. It was green.

"Trouble they are, waiting to happen," Ayr grumbled, picking up the new drink. "Believe not, you would, the things their parents give them. What, paid I have been, get for them, I have."

"Really. . . . .?" Inspector Yeevshoar pursed his lips at her. "That's . . . . . interesting. Got a lot of contacts, don't you?"

Ayr narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the officer. "Paid well for my discretion, I am, Inspector."

"Oh. Like that Ooremmus youngling? I don't think that any payment is enough to do service for her," Yeevshoar commented, his mouth lowering to sniff at the fresh drink.

"The sector police certainly might be more appreciative of your services, my friend," Qui-Gon said as he reached his long arm across the table, picked up the new drink from in front of Obi-Wan and placed it with a light thump in front of Ayr.

What . . . . .?

Surprised, Obi-Wan stared forward. Qui-Gon had been passing his own rounds off to Ayr and Yeevshoar, but now his? There were four empty cups in front of the Inspector. Seven empty cups in front of Y'Takr Ayr, plus the one in her hand. Looking down, Obi-Wan saw only three in front of him.

"Mmmmmmmmm. Retirement benefits, you have? Young and pretty, I am not."

"Weeeeellll. Only after a little provisional employment." Yeevshoar held his lips to the side appraisingly, the lids of his blue eyes narrowing. "If your contacts are as good as you say."

"She has been of great service to me in the past." Qui-Gon smiled and patted Ayr's arm. "If my reference would be of any benefit."

"Hrrmmmph! You know it does, Jedi. Couldn't get a better reference if it came from the Chancellor's office." His skinny fingers played with the empty glasses as he considered Ayr's possibilities.

Annoyed, Obi-Wan silently sat through the boring discussion about Ayr's potential as a police informant. They talked about who Ayr knew, covert meeting places, spy droids, probation, payments and retirements. Inspector Yeevshoar looked dismayed when Qui-Gon told him that Jedi did not retire. Ayr spoke with increasing interest about this new prospect.

When the next serving droid arrived, Qui-Gon picked up the drinks before the machine could set them out. Two for Ayr, two for the inspector. None for himself, or his Padawan.

Obi-Wan felt flushed and sweaty under his robe, but kept it on, feeling himself quite capable of enduring the heat and closeness of the crowded cantina. But his Master, who had discarded his own robe, didn't notice. If he could have reached far enough across under the table this time, he would have tapped Qui-Gon's boot for attention.

Finally, Ayr and the Inspector decided that they would continue with their business in a more secure location. They got up, Ayr a little more unsteadily. Qui-Gon stood with them. Ayr gave him a big hug. Then smiling, Qui-Gon lowered his head so Ayr could rub her middle protuberance against it, strands of his long hair hanging down. Shocked by the familiarity, Obi-Wan wondered what details Qui-Gon had not mentioned about Ayr's services in the past.

They left. Still standing, Qui-Gon picked up his robe, shook it out and shrugged into one big sleeve. "I believe our business here is done."

While Qui-Gon finished putting his robe on, Obi-Wan started to slide out from the bench seat. But before he could stand, his Master reached over and pulled him to his feet.

"Unnh," he grunted into the older Jedi's side, his legs having gone completely limp. Qui-Gon pulled him up, his feet under him this time, but the room refused to steady. With his Master supporting his shoulders they took a few steps before Obi-Wan realized his bladder needed urgent attention.

"Uh, I need to use the refresher."

"Are you feeling unwell, Padawan?"

The very suggestion seemed to echo inside Obi-Wan's stomach and he quelled the thought. "No, I just need to relieve myself."

"Of course."

They wove between the crowded tables in the dimly lit room, Obi-Wan concentrating hard on just walking and which way was up, while Qui-Gon remained rock steady.

They finally reached a rear archway that led to a wide, dark red corridor where a bulky lifter droid was levering upright a recumbent patron. Qui-Gon guided him around a left turn where the corridor brightened with each step until a last right turn led to a gleaming bright archway into a spacious refresher with pale blue, tiled walls, floors and attendant droids. Rumbling and noisy body functions echoed in the open space.

"Do you need my help?" his Master asked as he stopped before a narrow stall door in a very long row. Obi-Wan shook his head.

Qui-Gon suddenly grasped the collar of his robe and pulled it down and off of him in one smooth motion and then gave him a little push. The stiff white curtain parted into suddenly flexible ribbons that let him fall forward and reformed as soon as he was through. He hastily grasped the sturdy hand rails on either side of the narrow space.

Before him was a very generic white receptacle bowl with fluted edge. Planting his feet shoulder width under him, Obi-Wan fumbled with his pants and made his deposit. The fluted bowl gurgled and slurped it away. After dipping his hands into the sanitizers on the walls on either side of the bowl, Obi-Wan turned around and pushed his way out of the flexible curtain. . .

. . . . and almost collided with Qui-Gon, his apprentice's robe hanging over one arm. After regaining his footing, Obi-Wan guiltily faced his Master's appraisal.

Qui-Gon leaned forward and pulled up his pants and fastened them again. And then guided him toward a row of large clear basins along another wall. A slender blue-tiled attendant droid blinked it's white quad-eye sensors and asked if they needed its assistance. Qui-Gon politely declined.

The entire wall behind the basins was mirrored, lit from above and below. Next to his Master, Obi-Wan thought he looked too short, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bloodshot. He sniffed. Qui-Gon reached for a spray attachment by the basin - -

- - and suddenly grasped Obi-Wan's collar and thrust him forward. Cold, cold water stung his head and neck, running down his back. Arms flailing, he grasped the edges of basin, but Qui-Gon held him firmly in place. He shut his eyes and shook his head as Qui-Gon lowered the sprayer and pointed the water upward. Cold water ran down under his collar, dripping on his chest. He shivered.

The water suddenly stopped and Qui-Gon yanked him back. Obi-Wan groped for the drying cloth a droid held out for him.

"Better?"

Obi-Wan nodded. Now he looked pale and wet in the mirror. The droid took the cloth back.

"You did not mind yourself when we were sitting with Ayr and the Inspector, my young Padawan." His Master stood at his side, his reflected expression benign.

"No, Master," he guiltily acknowledged his lapse.

When they first sat down with Ayr, he had focused his thoughts inward, as he had been trained. He had minded the subtle heat and flow of the Force, as if his partially accelerated metabolism actually burned the d'yna away from inside him. But when they sat down the second time, after Ooremmus had been taken away . . . . he just hadn't thought about it.

"Well," Qui-Gon nodded, apparently satisfied with his contrition, "now would be a good time to . . . . catch up." Arm on Obi-Wan's shoulder, he led him to another archway into a low-ceilinged room with gray padded benches, blue padded walls and a cushioned floor. A couple of patrons lay stretched out wheezing and whistling, one on a bench, one on the floor.

Qui-Gon sat him down on a long empty area of bunch and plopped his robe next to him. He took his own robe off, piled that on top and sat down. He pulled his long legs up, sitting cross-legged. Obi-Wan did the same and looked around. The low ceiling was padded. The humming air ventilators only slightly muffled the noises of bodily functions from the main facility room. He had never meditated on the Force in a public refresher before.

"Obi-Wan."

He nodded, breathed in deeply, relaxed his shoulders and sat up straight. The Force, like another splash of cold water, made him feel like he was just waking up. How could he have forgotten?

"Be mindful, my young Padawan."

Obi-Wan could hear the smile in his Master's tone.

"This place can be a little rough."

**

* * *

[b]**##**##**##** END **##**##**##**[/b]**

This story was first posted on tf.n: 20-March-2010

**Disclaimer: **All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.


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